


Cold Fire

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Porn, Denial, F/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Tension, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 10:34:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14809715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: “I don't want to marry him. I know I should. He's a wonderful man, he wants to make me happy, I can't imagine how another would... I overheard his party talking; he means to propose tomorrow, and I, I can't think of a reason to say no, I know Father would never force me but – but I just don't want to. Oh gods, Robb, you must think I'm so selfish.”“Is there... someone else? Are you in love?”





	Cold Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the asoiafrarepairs challenge, the prompt: "Robb/Sansa, they give in to their suppressed feelings when they realize they can’t make it work with anyone else."

Sansa used to turn up at his door all the time when she was young, with her dreams and nightmares and the things that made her cry. The things children share. She has not done so in many years though, and Robb certainly wasn't expecting her tonight, now she is almost a woman wed.

He rubs his eyes, trying to be certain he isn't dreaming. “Sansa?” he asks, sleepy and puzzled.

“Robb.” He can see she's nervous, practically trembling where she stands. His pulse races. What is she so afraid of? “Can I come in?”

He nods instinctively, opening the door wide for her and, when she steps inside, closing it behind her. He means the gesture to make her feel safe, protected, but she jumps at the noise. “What's wrong?” he asks her quietly.

Sansa bites her lip, wrings her hands together and drops her gaze to the floor. Robb frowns. It's almost as if she feels guilty about something. “It's Lord Tyrell,” she whispers.

Robb feels his body shift, standing upright like he's preparing for an attack. His stomach churns a little at the name. Willas Tyrell is but the latest in the long line of suitors that have been pursuing his beloved sister ever since her first flowering. When Robb first heard the Tyrell heir would be visiting, he was displeased, thinking the man too old for his sister, just now into her eighteenth year. He was certain that the other man would be some sort of pervert obsessed with young girls, no-one he should ever trust his beloved sister with. But Tyrell has thus far proven as chivalrous as a man could be, kind and gentle, the exact sort of man he should be thrilled to see Sansa wed. So why isn't he?

 _Perhaps I was wrong,_ he thinks with alarm. “Has he done something, Sansa?” he asks as softly as he can while anger stirs in his gut.

“No,” she shakes her head furiously. “No, he's been nothing but lovely, and sweet, and clever, and more fun than I expected.” She closes her eyes, almost as if she's about to burst into tears, and Robb is left lost.

“So... what is the problem, then?”

A moment later, she opens her eyes again, looking into his own. She takes his breath away. “I don't want to marry him.”

Robb feels like he's been punched in the belly.

“I know I should,” she blurts out, averting her gaze again. “He's a wonderful man, he wants to make me happy, I can't imagine how another would... I overheard his party talking; he means to propose tomorrow, and I, I can't think of a reason to say no, I know Father would never force me but – but I just don't want to. Oh gods, Robb, you must think I'm so selfish.”

“No, Sansa, of course not. Never,” he tells her, and then he starts trying to force his panting breath and racing heartbeat to calm down. There is no reason for him to be panicking.

Lord Tyrell is not the first. Half the men in Westeros have expressed their interest in the beautiful Stark daughter, and while she's been charming as ever to all her suitors, Robb knows none of them have pleased her. Even Theon has suggested that the reason Sansa hasn't liked any of her visitors is that she is pining for someone closer to home, for which Robb punched him before he realised Theon actually meant himself. He does not know what he thought Theon meant.

Father doesn't talk about such things with him, but Mother, on the rare occasions it has come up, has said they don't want to push Sansa into a match that would make her unhappy. He knows it's starting to worry her though, now Sansa is almost into her eighteenth year, as old as she was when she became a mother, and their people are starting to wonder why such an eligible maiden hasn't found a husband yet.

Robb bites his lip. “Is there... someone else?” he asks, and he's not sure where the words come from, why he would ask such a thing. “Are you in love?”

Her jaw drops open in a sweet, pink 'o', and inexplicably, a tear slips from her eye. “Robb...” He watches her face start to crumble.

“Hey, hey, it's alright,” he tells her, and he steps forward to embrace her, to hold her close.

The same moment, she steps forward too, and presses her lips against his own.

It hardly lasts a moment, just a fleeting peck, and Robb does not even realise what has happened until it's over. Once he does though, he gasps in shock. “Sansa!”

She took herself by surprise too it seems, and she covers her mouth with her hand, mortified by what she's done. “Robb, I...” she says, but there are no words. “Oh gods, I'm so sorry.” The tears fall freely now, and she hurriedly hides her face. She just about reaches for the door to make her escape when Robb catches her by the wrist.

“Wait, Sansa!” he says. She stops, and then slowly, raises her face to look at him again, her blue eyes wide and terrified. They look so much alike. Robb bites his lip, a thousand moments, memories, fleeting thoughts he never let himself entertain and dreams he tried with every bone of his body not to remember falling horribly into place.

He leans in, and kisses her again.

Sansa gasps softly into his mouth, but she doesn't pull away. Her hands wind around his neck and she pulls him closer, until he has her pinned against the door. His tongue slips into her mouth and she moans, fingers digging into his skin, and Robb can feel his cock start to stir at having her so close, so hot, so needy against him.

They break for air and then they are left staring at each other, each with their own copy of their mother's eyes, fear and joy doing battle within. _My god,_ thinks Robb. _What have we done?_

“W-we shouldn't...” murmurs Sansa, sounding less than convinced. Robb nods.

“I know,” he says just before he drops his head to her neck and kisses the soft, peachy skin there, unable to resist the temptation to take it between his lips and _suck_ , not long enough to leave a mark, or at least not one that will last more than second. Sansa squeals as she throws her head back against the door with a thud. Robb's fingers find her hip and he squeezes, hard. “Gods, Sans, I want...”

“Me too,” she tells him and that's all he needs; he scoops his fingers underneath her arse and all but picks her up before he takes her to his bed.

Sansa gasps as she lands on her back, her legs wide and opening as he crawls on top of her, their mouths meeting once more as he rubs his cock, hard through his sleeping breeches, against her bare thigh. “Oh Robb,” she moans, their chests pressed together, her nipples erect through her silk nightdress. “Fuck me, please.”

The groan he gives is raw, animal. “I want to,” he tells her, biting her sweet, swollen bottom lip. “I want to fuck you so bad, Sansa.” He wants to thrust his cock in her cunt and pump her so full of seed no other man could ever come close. But he can't. She's still his sweet sister, and she's still Lord Stark's firstborn daughter; he would never take the risk of dishonouring her so, and what her future husband would think if he knew she came to him soiled.

Sansa whimpers as he all but tears her underthings off, and she stares down at him in confusion as he crawls his way down the bed. Robb acts on pure instinct, his cock throbbing in his breeches but it doesn't matter, all that matters is how bad he needs to taste her, to have her precious cunt in a way he knows he can't with his cock.

She cries out when he buries his face in her nethers, before grabbing a pillow to keep herself quiet. “Oh gods,” comes the smothered whimper, and Robb is too desperate to tease. He slides his tongue right inside and fucks her with it, as hard as he can, lapping up her salty taste like a man starved. She tastes like the summer breeze and the sky at night, and the ocean, vast and eternal. She tastes of freedom.

He has his hand inside his breeches before he can even think otherwise, stroking himself frantically as she writhes beneath his mouth. She whines at how his stubble scratches along her thighs, and a terrible part of him wants to leave her bruised, marked. He wants her, just like this, too lost in pleasure to even think of sin. Forever.

They can't carry on very long, too much an act of passion, a breaking of the dam, to last. He can her muffling her scream of pleasure into the pillow, body arched off the bed and taut as a bowstring. He moans and shudders and drinks up every last drop of her he can before he spends into his palm, grasping her hip again as he's swamped with a peak like never before. When he raises his face again, looks her in the eye, it can't have been more than a few minutes, but he feels like he was down there for days.

She lets out a sigh and takes him by the hand, pulling him back up to lie by her side. She curls against his chest and, now the pleasure is over, there are only consequences. Robb feels a little sick.

“What are we going to do now?” she whispers, her fingers running through his hair, and he has no idea. He wants her. He knows now, undeniably, that he has always wanted her. But that does not change the fact he cannot have her.

“Are you going to marry Lord Tyrell?” he asks, and she pulls back, staring up at him in shock. It's like they have been floating in the air this whole time, and now she's just hit the ground.

“Do I have a choice?” she asks, and Robb is hit with a wave of guilt. Not so much for what they've done – though there is that too – but for the fact she wants him, and now she knows she wants him. And now she will never be happy with anyone else. Nor will he.

He pulls her tight again. “We could run away,” he tells her. “Catch the first ship to Essos and live as man and wife, as commoners. Bake our own bread and keep our own animals. We wouldn't be the first.”

She smiles at him, but he can see in her eyes, she doesn't believe it. Seeing it reflected in her blues, he doesn't either. The fantasy is foolish, childish. “No we couldn't,” she says. “It would break Mother and Father's heart. I couldn't do that to them, and you couldn't either. Besides, you're heir to Winterfell. I know you wouldn't abandon your duty like that. You wouldn't be you if you did.” She pauses. “I wouldn't love you so much if you weren't that way.”

Robb sighs. He knows she's right – he could never leave it all behind to be with her, no matter how much he wants to. He loves her, he is in love with her, the way a brother should never be with his sister. And yet, she is not all he loves.

If only they were Targaryens, they would not have this problem. The firstborn son and the firstborn daughter, their passion would be positively encouraged. But the Targaryens are gone, destroyed in the fire their sins lit, and that is not the Stark way. Their fate is not fire and passion and madness, but cool duty and grim necessity.

He says nothing, and just lies there in her embrace, holding on as long as he can. It will hurt, he realises. Years from now, it will tear him up inside to think of the one night he spend with his sister in his arms, when she lives miles away bearing babes for another man, and he must take a wife to give him sons to pass his title to. He will wish he had never done it, that he let himself live in denial of who he truly wanted for the rest of his days.

But in this moment, with her lying here, he cannot regret it, not yet.

 


End file.
